It's Not the End of the World!
by boombangZOOM
Summary: Apocalyptic!AU. Either you are a cannibal or human. There are no 'ifs' 'buts' or 'whats' about it. Once infected with the virus, you are one of them. There is no going back, there is no cure. This is what you have been told time and time again since the day you were born, but for some reason this Dante guy seems to be an exception to this. What the hell /is/ he? (Reader insert fic)
1. Chapter 1

**Gat damn. Look at me. Being productive.**

**Fuckin' awesome.**

**(Important, please read! I've published this fanfiction before, but it was way shittier and Dante wasn't in character and honestly it was just a mess. I've attempted replacing the chapters with newly improved ones, but I wound up changing the plot as I went along, and there was simply no saving it.****_ Please note that this fanfiction is designed to be a reader insert._**** While it may not be written in second person (example: ****_You_**** went to the store. ****_You_**** bought the cabbage and ate the cabbage and ****_you_**** loved the cabbage very much), it is designed so that the reader than insert whatever name/physical appearance they please (example: My fists clenched in my pockets as I took in a deep, shuddering breath. "Dante," I said, (E/C) eyes boring holes into his blue ones. "Please, tell me you're kidding.") Insert your favorite OC or a character from homestuck. Hell, insert yourself, if that floats your boat.**

**But please be aware:**

**F/N = first name**

**E/C = Eye colour**

**H/C = Hair colour**

**etc.**

* * *

The wind is so cold it hurts, but I can't stop now. I have to eat _something_.

My fingers wont stop shaking as I stuff fistfuls of the food into my mouth. Everything is dry, flavorless, half-chewed when I begin to swallow. But now isn't the time to be picky. I haven't eaten since last Tuesday – or what I believed to be last Tuesday. It's so easy to lose track of the days now.

My knees are numb from the snow when I turn and lock my gaze onto the assassin just in time to see him smirk, draw a serrated blade from his coat and launch it into a cannibal's chest. It shrieked a sound foreign to my ears and bubbled into dust.

My thoughts are too foggy with hunger to realize what a suicidal idea this is. The only logical thing it _can_ formulate at this point in time is that I will die if I don't eat right here, right now. And at least a bullet to the head would be a much more desirable death as opposed to starving to death underneath layers of snow.

Tinted blood thick enough to be considered goo slaps onto the white snow, only to dissolve at the touch of such a holy shade of white. A drop of the substance is coughed up in the process and lands on my arm.

Seeing it burn a hole through my skin sends me over the edge. My eyes triple in size as I shriek and drag my twitching left arm up and down the snow, staining it black. At first the contact makes my arm spasm and sizzle farther before eventually calming and dulling down into a soothing numbness.

Then everything falls silent aside from the heaviness of my breathing. The loud screeches from the cannibals are gone, and the barely audible crunches of snow beneath boots disappear. There's a sudden shift of wind, followed by the icy feel of the barrel of a gun forced up against my forehead.

Directly in my view is the handle, pale fingers wrapped securely around them. My heartbeat races as the gun then shifts to underneath my chin, tilting my head up.

My eyes lock with those of cerulean. My breathing stops altogether as my head is tilted left and right, up and down. Why he's doing this is no mystery. It isn't to offend me, a silent way of calling me abnormal-looking. He's checking to see if I'm clean.

Either you are a cannibal or human. There are no 'ifs' 'buts' or 'whats' about it. Once infected with the _cannibalia_ virus, you are one of them. There is no going back, there is no cure. Your forehead becomes rippled with purpling veins and your pupils are enlarged until you're irises are appear nonexistent and it's only a matter of time before you begin losing function of your thoughts and body.

You will begin to fidget. You will hate sitting still. At a week tops, the virus would have dominated all function of you and who you are and have you in the streets running miles on end for human flesh.

And even that, too, is scarce.

If you don't know what you're doing, coming face-to-face with one is suicide. You can't outrun them, period. But say you're good. Say you can run a mile, two, three. Maybe even four. But you _cant_ run forever, and eventually your body will give out on you. Only theirs wont. Cannibals could run double, triple, quadruple even that and wouldn't even be short of breath. You'd have a better chance fighting, but that isn't saying much.

The cold metal disappears, and is replaced with icy fingers pressed against my collarbone. I'm raised by my collar. Before I'm even on my feet, vomit spills out of me. The man recoils in disgust and drops me onto the snow where I continue.

The action was completely involuntary. I didn't feel it coming, there was no wave of nausea. Just a random upchuck that proved my stomach angry with me for denying it food for all this time.

But once I begin, I cannot stop. My throat burns from the acid and the tears being squeezed from my tear ducts quickly become a river.

"Close your eyes," A voice says from behind me. "and hold your breath."

I do, and a few wretches later, it's over. A few tears drip from my chin and onto the snow as I scoop up a handful of the white stuff that escaped the wrath of my vomit and take my chances with cleansing my mouth with it.

There's the sensation of my collar tightening, and before I know it I'm on my feet again. He releases me only when I'm on sturdy feet, watches me shudder. "You okay, kid?"

I give off the vibe that I'm about to puke again, and just as it appears as if I'm about to spill, I snag the mans knife and position it threateningly.

He raises his hands, but does not seem the slightest bit intimidated. In fact, there's a hint of a smirk on his lips. "So much for a friendly banter, I guess."

"Shut up," I demand, but my voice quivers. I've never weld a knife before. "Where are you going?"

"...Where am I going?"

I swallow hard. "You heard me. There's no way you're just wandering in circles. You have to be headed somewhere."

"What's it to you? And- come on, you're not even holding the blade right." He snatches it back before I even have a chance to blink.

I stare at my empty hands, stunned.

"Did you want to tag along, or something?" He studies me, realizes he's hit the mark. "..Forget I ever said that."

"C-Can I-"

"No." He begins assembling his things. "I don't know if I'd be all that okay with bringing along a psycho who tried to kill me."

For whatever reason, that offends me. "It's not like I was going to."

"I figured that."

The snow crunches underneath his boots as he begins to walk off. "What if I didn't try and kill you?"

"Maybe I'd let you tag along, maybe I wouldn't."

I struggle to keep up as I lock my eyes on the back of his head, his hair whiter than the snow. "Well. . . I'm sorry."

He stops suddenly and I smack into his chest. I can hear the smirk in his voice when he says, "Keep talking."

**"My body is numb from the cold,**

**but I do my very best to ignore it."**

After a very lengthy and descriptive apology along with calling myself a series of childish names, I was forgiven. He told me his name was Dante, and I gave him mine. But directly after the introductions, he thoroughly explained to me that if I ever ransacked through his food again, I'd be sporting a new bullet in my head.

I kick a can laying randomly in the void lot. Random sheets of paper struggle to keep it's place on the charcoal ground, only to billow across the gray sky, following the harsh wind. It bothers me how Dante walks so closely to the cars that appeared to be rundown for ages when it was so blaringly obvious that I am afraid of them. (He wouldn't listen when I told him I saw movement within one) But I swear, he does it solely to annoy me.

I glance up at name of the storefront."Whalemart," I read aloud.

Dante rolls his eyes. "Walmart."

Huh. Well I don't like Walmart. It appears empty and dark, and barely anything is visible though the cracked windows. But Dante doesn't care, apparently, and jams a knife almost long enough to be considered a sword between the two slide-in doors, forcing them open. He squeezes through the small space, and makes a motion for me to follow him when I don't.

I cling to his arm when we're inside the darkness. He shoves me off.

Then there's a shift of wind, and he's gone.

For a moment I'm blind, then a gentle _click _is echoing throughout the vast space, followed by lights, row-by-row, gleaming to life. I feel a large hand rest itself on my shoulder, the other nudging me on with the butt of a gun. "Jeez," he mutters.

The place is wrecked, and a good half of the lights were flickering wildly, threatening failure. Clothes racks were scattered randomly on the dirty tile, completely void of, well, clothes. Wires hung from the ceiling, sparks flying from the end of their torn cords. There are two levels to this store, upstairs and downstairs. Simple. The lights on the second floor refused to turn on, and I figure it best not to go and explore.

"Here we are." He sighs, standing directly in front of what remained of the food aisle. "Lets see what's left."

There isn't much. For an aisle labeled BREAD/PASTRIES it seems a little, well...lacking. We come across half of a loaf of bread that has been torn in half by human hands, a box of cereal that is verging emptiness. That is all we take, because that is all that's left.

Similar stories with aisles 1-8. Labels that tell stories of food and refreshment, only to heavily disappoint. We've already made an all-around trip of the first floor in less than ten minutes, and our cart is hardly a quarter full.

Now back at the front of the shop, Dante observes the second floor with an aura of promise.

I roll my eyes. "Dante, it isn't worth it."

"Oh c'mon."

I'm standing at the edge of the stairs leading to the second floor, cart in hand, watching as Dante jogs up the steps two at a time. The stairs lead to a hallway that stretches across the mall, but laying firmly against the extending wall is something blue and luminescent – a vending machine.

I give an irritated sigh, slowly making my way up the steps to join him. Once at the top, I carefully avoid a rippled arm laying randomly on the tile. "Oh yeah, what could possibly go wrong." I say sarcastically, joining Dante by the machine.

I sigh. "Can we please leave? I doubt you have any-"

He slips a dollar from his wallet and waggles it in my face. I groan.

He slips in the dollar.

Seconds pass, and the machine spits it back out.

He pushes it back in.

The dollar juts out.

He sighs dramatically, straightens the dollar against the edge of the machine, and slides it back in.

The bill sticks out stubbornly.

"Oh wow," I mutter, quickly making way to the shopping cart at the bottom of the stairs.

I stumble and nearly trip upon hearing a loud crash, and turn to see the vending machine cut clean in half and dripping with soda. Dante reaches in, grabs a soda, and catches up to me in a few strides. "Here," he says upon reaching me.

We're at the bottom of the stairs when I give him a funny look, then stare at the drink firmly grasped in his hand.

His pale fingers tug at the pop-top, and a strange liquid sprays into the air, followed by a light tan substance bubbling and slightly overflowing the newly-made hole. My eyes widen and I take a step back. "Is that safe to drink?" Before his passing, Dad had told me stories about soda, most of them being how great it taste. I can't say I have the slightest clue what he was talking about. But this, this looks like _acid_.

He gives me a look, and presses the rim of the cool can against my bottom lip.

I furrow my brows and take a sip, only to spit it back out onto the tile. It tastes sour and bitter and sugary and- and I don't know what else. All I know is that it is possibly the worst liquid combination known to man, and that my mouth is probably overflowing with bubbles created by the drink and my own saliva.

I force down the soda that hid stubbornly in the corners in my mouth with difficulty.

Dante gives me a long stare. "How could you **not **like soda," he moans, snatching the beverage from my hands.

I burp and swipe at the corner of my mouth with my sleeve.

* * *

I'm dead tired and the soles of my feet are aching, but I don't tell Dante this. Truth be told, the concrete feels as if it will crumble beneath my feet and, even with Dante walking beside me, I don't feel the slightest bit safe traveling on it. But then again, it's either this, or take our chance with the monsters down below.

Dante had told me to remain silent when we took our first steps onto the highway. I asked why, and he explained that there were cannibals beneath us. Hoards of them. I didn't want to believe him at first, but now that we are actually walking the distance on the lengthy road, I can actually hear them; their meaningless shouting, their feet colliding with the dirt below them as they ran at their inhuman speeds.

I look over the ledge and my stomach does a flip-flop. The cannibals were grouping together, making way towards something behind a ruined car with a menacing swagger – like a pack of wolves intimidating a prey in plain sight. They are cornering something, no, people – a mother and a daughter. The next few events fly by in a blur. The cannibals are on them in seconds, and my stiff legs melt down into jello upon hearing the female scream, followed by the cry of her small child. The mother is torn from the girl and is quickly engulfed in mouths as they tear off chunks of her skin.

The child's screams are silenced by a knife to her head. She falls to the ground, unmoving.

My pace stops altogether as the mother's cries increase, and the nerve-wrecking sound of flesh being torn rips through my ears like a blade. My features run pale as the mother lay limp, blood gushing from her torn open chest and spurting from her now missing arm. I look away, grimacing. Dante grips my arm and tugs me away, telling me to cover my ears, but I don't listen. I focus on the sound of the terribly unfortunate human below us as she suffers the worst possible death there is, being eaten alive.

I kneel over and heave up my stomach's remains.

I hear the heavy thud of footfalls, followed by a pair of dark boots planting themselves beside me. "I'm surprised you aren't used to that yet," I hear Dante say. I feel myself being lifted and placed onto cold metal that crisscrossed beneath my bottom. "I'm sure they don't want to be helped at this point," he silences the plea ringing in my thoughts.

He's right. The woman is probably torn to pieces by now, and he and I both know she is still _alive_, but has lost the will to scream. "...Why don't they kill them first," I think out loud. I shift uncomfortably against the food placed randomly in the cart, awaiting Dante's reply.

There is none.

* * *

And that's chapter one!

Remember to review~ :o)


	2. Chapter 2

**(Vigorous rapping in the distance)**

* * *

_I grasped a yellow crayon and scribbled on the wall beside the dinning room table. It was hard for me to clearly see the large sun in the center of my drawing. The candle was placed on a really high shelf along with Mom's collection of China plates. It's orange glow didn't reach down to where I was. At least, not enough to see what you were doing._

_I bent over and colored in the green grass just above the tile of the floor. Mom and Dad were arguing again, and I was too young to understand that they were fighting over __**me**__. What was soon to come._

_"We should have done this earlier," Mom said in weary voice. There was a scrape of a chair across tile and Dad collapsed into it. "Before she was born."_

_You stole a quick peek at them through the walk-in door leading to the kitchen, only to find Mom leaning against the stove, her dark hair in it's usual messy style. Dad was seated in a chair, face in hands. My eyes switched back to my drawing, and I reached up on my tip-toes, coloring in my sun._

_**BANG**__._

I jolt awake, cold sweat running down the back of my neck. I swallow audibly and drag a shaking hand across my forehead, slowly laying back down against the uncomfortable seat.

"Jesus Christ, must you make so much fucking noise?"

I jump at the sound of Dante's voice, then twist slightly in my seat to face him. He looked irritated, rubbing the sleep from a cerulean eye and trying to find a comfortable position against the leather seat. "Sorry.." I pull my jacket tighter around myself. "Bad dream."

"And I was in the middle of a _great_ one," He yawned, stretched. "Babes. _Everywhere_. And then your noisy ass woke me up." Then he turned round in his seat, nuzzling the leather.

I stare, mouth agape in disbelief and staring at the back of his turtle-neck. _This man did not have a care in the world._ And my obvious staring didn't appear to be making a difference, either, for his chest quickly fell into a steady rhythm of up and down, and if I didn't nudge him the way I did, it's undoubtedly true that this man truly would have _went back to sleep._

"_What_?"

My teeth make a little sound as I snap my jaw shut, scowling at him. "You could at least _pretend_ you care."

He doesn't move. "I'm not Dr. Phil, kid."

My breath catches in my throat. I have no idea who this Dr. Phil person is, but it's apparent that he doesn't care for my situation any more than he did five seconds ago. And if he doesn't: fine. So be it. I don't care, either. I don't care if he doesn't care, so in the end neither of us care and this whole conversation is hopelessly unnecessary. Yeah. That's what it is. It's fucking unnecessary. And now I'm going to turn the fuck around and go the fuck back to sleep.

Yeah.

And I was about ten seconds into my semi-comfortable position against the carseat when there was a squeak of leather again, followed by Dante's voice: "Alright...what happened?"

Oh, so now he bothers? Well, too bad for him. Because now I don't want to talk about it.

"Kid?"

I play deaf.

"..Fine. I don't care, anyway." Another squeak, and I crane my head just the slightest bit to find his platinum head of hair nuzzling the seat again.

Silence fills the truck. It isn't the same one as before. The one prior to this one was calm, relaxed. Two companions in need of rest after a day of travel. This one is tense, like something needs to be said, and that that truth is being denied and ignored.

I pretend I don't notice it for a whole twelve seconds before it begins to gnaw at me. Then I blurt out: "Then why'd you ask?"

Silence. And then, "Well sorry for trying to be a gentlemen!" A squeak, and I turn to see Dante half-sitting, half-leaning against the seat. "There's no pleasing you."

"Yes there is!" I blush, because my voice came out more squeaky than it did firm. "You just...don't do it right."

More silence. Then a chuckle rumbled from his chest and I could feel it spread throughout the confined space, fighting off the awkward and washing over me in waves until I finally drew up the courage to sit up in my seat and face him. He smirked a me for a moment before his features faded into one of seriousness. "Really, though. What happened?"

I blinked and the nightmare flashed behind my eyelids. I tried not to seem hesitant, not let him know the huge amount of detail I was leaving out when I said, "Just about..my parents and stuff."

As I said this, he kicked his boots up onto the dashboard, folding his gloved hands behind his head. "Uh-huh. What about your 'parents and stuff'?"

I chewed my bottom lip.

He glanced at me, absorbed my aura. "See, my mom was always a bit...superstitious. She had this belief that whenever you don't share your nightmares, they come true."

I watch as bitter winds send papers flying across the windshield. I focus on those, not Dante, and it takes a lot for my voice to stay steady when I say: "It already did."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat that carries some cross between a grunt and the word 'mhm.'

I turn to him, and he says, "My mom died too. As for my Dad..." He then stares at something over my head, eyes losing focus. "he was never...around. You shouldn't cling onto someone that isn't here anymore." He yawns and stretches again.

I want to question him further, but I don't. "Good to know we have something in common," I say bitterly.

He only smirks, resting his head back against the seat.

It must still be late. My eyes are growing heavy again, but I'm afraid to fall asleep, afraid of dreaming about Mom and Dad. Out past the windshield is nothing but the dark sky and stars, shining down on this wrecked world peacefully. Mockingly, almost.

I stare at Dante with envy. His blue eyes were closed again, his breathing even, and the left side of his white hair was mashed against the seat of the truck. How can sleeping come so easy to him?

"**Out past the windshield is nothing but the dark sky and stars,**

**shining down on this wrecked world peacefully.**

**Mockingly, almost."**

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

I flash him an annoyed look from inside the cart as he pushes us down the bumpy concrete. "You know what I meant," I murmur, placing my chin in the palm of my hand. "How were you able to do all of that stuff yesterday?"

The small fluffs of white of white falling from the gray sky are beginning to pile onto his shoulders and hair. The snow looks so pretty as it drifts from the sky, landing wherever it pleases. But it is only just before I stretch out my tongue to catch one do I realise that they are tinged with something dark: Ash.

Dante stays silent a moment, which I can honestly say is somewhat unsettling. Not that I've known him all my life, but these past two days he hasn't exactly rubbed me as the kind of guy to hold his tongue. If he has to say something, he'll say it, and if his words scorch you. . . well. Those are just burns you will have to put up with.

After a moment, when he finally parts his lips, I find it perfectly natural that I have to hold back a scoff when he says: "If I tell you, you'll run away."

I prop my elbow on the edge of the cart, watching him. I pray that he understands that I am truly, honestly, and completely incapable of helping the smirk that stretches across my features when I say, "Wanna bet?"

Then it happens, at that exact moment. As I'm still smiling, as I can still hear the rhythmic crunch of snow beneath Dante's boots. The sound of artificial humming cuts my calm like a knife, applies pressure to my lips until they've faltered into a straight line. I hardly feel my feet as I slip out of the cart and stiffen upon hearing the sound of a sputtering engine emitting from the tunnel.

"Shit." Dante mutters, dragging the cart behind a barrage of bushes leading to the forest."Get over here," He orders once securely hidden by a tree.

I'm about to question him when the blaring sound of a horn is heard, followed by a blinding light, no, a _pair_ of blinding lights shining from inside the tunnel. I hear them next, the cannibals laughing and screaming, some singing even.

My legs melt down into jello, my heart leaping higher and higher into my throat with every beat. My body has never felt so numb, so immobile. The hood of an ugly truck slowly sputters into view as the truck slowly makes it way out of the tunnel. I feel a large hand on my shoulder, and are yanked behind a bush.

The next thing I see is Dante, furious and red faced. "Are you out of your fucking mind!" He hisses at me, but I ignore him, waiting for feeling to seep back into me. I shove him off of me, hiding stiffly against the bark of a tree.

I nearly lose my balance. The forest seems flat on the road, but it is actually a steep downward slope. Behind us lays a river greened by toxins and chemicals. I grip onto a tree a tree to refrain from falling backwards while Dante flattens out on his stomach, peeping silently over the grass as a truck pulls into view. He pulls out a gun.

Blood drains from my face as they all flood out of the beat-up truck. It's obvious that they are cannibals, I can see the thick purple veins pulsating from their temple to the back of their necks, the lack of focus and sanity in their eyes.

They're barbaric, all of them.

One who is clothed in nothing more than a large dirty shirt and jeans forcefully lifts the hood of the truck, nearly tearing it from it's gears. Another hobbles over to help him. He's missing one arm, and half of another – both look horribly infected.

A really slender male, slender enough to resemble a twig, struts his way towards us.

The cannibal doesn't notice Dante and I, and pulls down his zipper, and urinates the bush dangerously close to me. I suppress a gag and shift slowly to the right. I don't know if you can catch their disease through urine, but being peed on isn't exactly on my bucket list.

Terrible mistake. His lanky neck cranes our way, his crazed eyes squinting, focusing on me the best they could. I look up at him with fearful eyes that soon switch to ones of confusion upon seeing the towering male stiffen. "Get over here." I hear Dante say, then glance at him to see him waggling a finger at the cannibal in a 'come here' motion. In his other hand, a black gun was aiming at the opposing male.

The cannibal nods, fast and hard, kneeling down and crawling over to where Dante was laying. "Don't turn around." He orders when the lanky man attempts to look over his shoulder. "Make a sound and I'll blow your brains out."

The cannibal keeps his ground for a few short moments, a frustrated expression scribbled clear across his face. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to process the few short words Dante had said. Cannibals may be fast, but they are relatively unintelligent. Their only form of thinking is based off of instinct and hunger. There is no second thoughts with them. Being caught in plain view of a cannibal is similar to dangling raw meat in front of a lion.

He flops ungracefully onto the icy grass beside Dante.

Almost immediately, I gag at his wretched scent – human blood and sweat. Dante just looks how he normally does. I place a hand over my mouth and suppress a gag. My heart rate slows, even if only by a fraction, and I peek around the bark for any signs of the monsters leaving.

I give an odd cry at the feeling of something icy and bony, fingers, wrapping themselves around my ankles. I call out to Dante in panic but I'm already being dragged by my feet up the moist, snowy moss and onto the hard concrete of the road.

It all seems to happen in slow motion. The hand hoists me up and I'm dangling upside down, my dark hair piling onto the rough concrete of the street. Then I smell them, the cannibals as they encircled me. I see them next, their ugly faces, their putrid scars, their pulsating veins. I was mere meat to them.

I try to look for Dante, but all I see is a barrage of feet and ankles as I'm spun around – as they encircle me.

**BANG.**

I fall onto the concrete head first, moaning from the impact. I see the cannibal's hand next, bloody and connected to nothing other than my ankle. I'm shaking too hard to kick it off. The sound of gun fire and screams of agony are ringing in my ears. Blood splatters all over me – a dark shade of red by not yet black. It smells worse than the cannibals.

Then everything stops, and I know the cannibals are dead, and I know I'm covered in their blood, and I know I seem pretty fucking close to useless. A pair of icy fingers hoist be up by my collar, but only this time, I'm not afraid of Dante.

"**They're barbaric,**

**all of them."**

He lays me down by the river, pulling off my blood-stained sweater. He shrugs off his coat and hands it to me. "There's blood all over your face," He says.

I bend over the river, studying my reflection in the green contaminated water. He's right, my face is splattered with crimson and the left side of my hair is caked with the fluid. I take in a guff of air and stick my head under water, slowly massaging the substance from my face and hair.

The water is icy and I suppress the panic instinct upon its unpleasant chill. After a few seconds of being submerged, my face begins to burn due to the chemicals. I pull out, droplets of tinted water streaming from my features as I stare back at reflection in the river. My perception on myself has yet to change. I'm just...me, with my (H/C) hair that's smooth enough to the touch, and is cut in such a way that it frames my features just enough to accentuate them. My skin tone has lightened due to lack of exposure to the sun, which really isn't a surprise. It's been seven years. I guess you could say the light skin contrasts nicely with my eye colour - but what does that matter, anyhow?

Looks aren't important anymore. If anything, it's a disadvantage, given how it's the attractive ones that get raped and eaten first.

"Hey, kid." Dante's voice grabs me by the feet and drags me out of my thoughts. "You gonna stare at yourself all day?"

The cold hits me like a slap in the face the second I look away from my reflection. I quickly pull on Dante's coat, and shudder at the sudden warmth.

* * *

**Hey. Hey you.**

**Has anyone told you that you're adorable today? Because guess what? You are.**

**Now carry on lil' trucker. **


End file.
